188 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



At ten minutes of eight, as we left the meadow 

 and strolled towards our waiting carryall, the 

 upper air resounded with the strange music of 

 the flying snipe. My friend, who has heard this 

 sound scores of times, feels confident that it is 

 mechanical in character, "drumming," in fact. 

 To my ears it seems to be vocal in quality. 

 Whichever it may be, its weird sweetness makes 

 it one of the most attractive night or twilight 

 sounds in nature. One accepts rather as a 

 matter of course the sunlight singing of a light- 

 hearted little finch or vireo, but for a shy recluse 

 of the swamps to betake himself at evening to the 

 heights of the sky, and there against the stars, 

 invisible to all except the keenest eyes, to pro- 

 duce his witching serenade, is something unique, 

 and captivating to the imagination. 



Early in the day Rock Meadow told us two 

 secrets which were very precious to two families 

 of birds. In the great pollard willows which 

 line the causeway are many comfortable crotches, 

 angles and curves which appeal to nest builders. 

 In one of these a robin had placed her nest and 

 laid her eggs. Her bright eye watched us 

 keenly as we drew near the tree, and the mo- 

 ment she felt the force of our gaze upon her, she 

 slipped away to reproach us from a distance. 

 Those greenish blue eggs were the first I had 

 seen this year, and they seemed like precious 



